Ride. Write.

The Tour de Tree. Five Days, 10 stages, mucho hurt. There is only one rule: All riders must complete a loop of the Mother Tree during a stage or risk disqualification. The following is an account of the thrid edition of this tour. Photos here

There once was a Queen in Idaho With a penchant for pain, well dontcha know She put on a race With gravelly high pace And we all fell apart like weak so-and-sos. There’s poetry to riding a bicycle. A rhythm. A tempo. The percussion of the chain as it reverbs over terrain, the gear-shift melody, the rattling of a loosening bottle cage in a syncopated tick, which amplifies the verse as it flows through your mind. So. If there is poetry to riding a bicycle, then my style of riding could be classified as pure dirge. A ballad for the …

Sick of it. Sick of riding my bike. Just sick of it. Probably not the best frame of mind to be in, a week out from The Death Ride. The Death Ride, aka The Tour of the California Alps, aka The 100% Surefire Way to Enrage a Saddle Sore Ride. Sick of it. Sick of riding my bike and the perceived detection of invisible expectation that I’ll always be found on a bike and the pressure I put on myself to Be Out There All the Time and Ride Long for No Reason at All. Except perhaps to find where …

You. You are a frivolous person. A frivolous person with frivolous thoughts that spin and cartwheel on the front lawn of your mind. Legs flinging, knees bent, your thoughts less perfect with each rotation. Less complete and full. This gravel is onto you. It’s not stupid. It sees your nerves as easily as if they were strung across this road at foot-tripping, shin height. That armadillo husk, cracked and desiccated, melon-ball empty like some hollowed-out canoe—it is onto you. It mocks you. You too, it says, shall be a hollowed out shell at the end. Consider this a warning. You. …

I present to you a short visual memory dump of the first ever Rebecca’s Private Idaho gravel grinder. I hadn’t intended on making a video, but took a bunch of footage in case I changed my mind. Considering I had no real concept for what this might turn into, this cobbled together piece turned out Aok. Footage is all real-time. No FWWD motion for the bits that look fast. I wrote about my experience here And there are photos of the weekend and from the event here Thanks to Olivia and Victor for the company on the drive (and during …

Prologue: Sixtyish mile mark, time unknown A crunch of gravel, the sharp ting of small stones against bike underbellies, projectile vomited there by irritated and belligerent tires. Bottles rattle in cages. Skeletons vibrate like tuning forks in our soft, beaten bodies. In the key of E-ouch. “Hey,” I say, looking over at Olivia as she pedals smooth, steady circles, piloting her Crux across the gravel. “Have you ever seen those old ads for the fat loss belt thingie that vibrates your fat away?” Instantly, she knows what I’m talking about and laughs. “Yes.” “How much weight do you think we’ve …